Aaron and I met on a dating app, one of those that prided itself on connecting people through shared interests and deep, meaningful conversations. His profile caught my attention immediately—charming, witty, and just a little old-fashioned. A man who quoted poetry with ease, who seemed to understand the subtlety of humor, and who expressed kindness through every word. We hit it off almost instantly.
Our conversations were the kind that felt natural, like we had known each other for years. He shared stories about his childhood, his love for jazz music, and his adventures in cooking. I laughed at his witty remarks, and he seemed genuinely interested in my thoughts on everything from books to food to life in general.
One evening, after a week of texting, he invited me over for dinner. “Home-cooked, just us two,” he said, his words light but with an underlying sincerity that made my stomach flutter. It was the kind of invitation that felt intimate but comfortable, like a casual dinner with someone you could imagine growing old with. I couldn’t resist.
When I arrived at his apartment, I was immediately struck by how perfect everything was. Soft jazz music played in the background, setting a calm and intimate atmosphere. The apartment smelled of rosemary, garlic, and butter—a combination that made my mouth water before I even stepped inside. Candles flickered on the dining table, casting a warm glow over the set meal. He was in the middle of plating a perfectly cooked steak and some asparagus.
“You’re early,” Aaron said with a grin when he saw me. “But that’s okay. I’m glad you’re here.”
I smiled back, feeling an odd sense of ease despite the air of perfection around me. Everything looked like it belonged in a magazine—like something out of a romantic movie.
We sat down, and for a while, everything was as it should be. We talked and laughed, enjoying the meal and the wine that had already been poured. The conversation flowed as naturally as it had over text, with no awkward pauses or silences. He asked questions, listened intently, and made me feel like I was the only one in the room.
But as the evening went on, something began to feel… off.
It was subtle at first—just a strange glance here and there. He kept looking at the empty chair across the table. Every time I glanced at it, I saw him smile, his eyes lingering on the space like there was someone sitting there. At one point, he even poured more wine into the glass on the other side, as though someone was waiting for it.
I laughed nervously, trying to brush it off. “Are you expecting someone else?” I asked, trying to make light of the situation.
But Aaron didn’t laugh. He looked me dead in the eye, his expression serious.
“She was here,” he said quietly, his voice almost a whisper. “Until you arrived.”
The words hung in the air, thick and uncomfortable. I blinked, unsure of how to respond. My stomach churned. I didn’t know whether to laugh or be alarmed.
“Who?” I asked, my voice shaky, not quite joking anymore.
Aaron just kept chewing his steak, not answering me right away. He took a sip of his wine, eyes still fixed on the empty chair, like he was waiting for something.
Then, with eerie calmness, he spoke again, his tone flat but oddly soothing. “You’re better than the others,” he said. “You didn’t scream when you came in.”
I froze. My mind raced, but my body went still. What was he talking about? Who were these others? And why did the air in the room suddenly feel thick and suffocating?
I pushed my chair back, standing up so fast that my fork fell to the ground with a sharp, metallic clang. The sound echoed through the quiet room, and that’s when I saw it—the napkin on the empty chair. It was stained a deep, dark red.
My blood ran cold.
The napkin was soaked in something that looked disturbingly like blood, its edges crisp and uneven, as though it had been hastily discarded. I stared at it, my heart pounding in my chest. Every instinct screamed at me to leave, to get out of there. But I couldn’t look away.
Aaron was still sitting there, eating his steak like nothing was wrong, his gaze still fixed on the empty chair. It was as though he didn’t even notice the tension in the room, or worse, as if he wanted me to notice it.
I could feel my breath quicken, my body trembling as I took a step back. “I—I need to go,” I stammered, barely able to form the words.
Aaron didn’t move. He didn’t try to stop me or even acknowledge my distress. He just smiled, a small, almost unsettling smile, and said, “It’s alright. She’s gone now.”
I didn’t wait for another word. I turned and ran out of his apartment, my heart thudding in my chest, my mind spinning with questions I couldn’t answer.
I didn’t look back.
To this day, I still don’t know who he cooked for before me. I don’t know who “she” was, or why Aaron had that strange, unnerving look in his eyes when he spoke of her. I don’t know if she was real or just some twisted part of his imagination. But I know one thing for sure: I never spoke to Aaron again after that night.
And I never will.
